


Love Like Blood

by princesschubbles



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: "Will graham kinkshames himself", ? - Freeform, Blood, Blood Kink, M/M, Medical Kink, Not wound fucking but also not NOT woundfucking, Post TWOTL, imminent risk of infection, lots of blood, surgery kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 06:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8133719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesschubbles/pseuds/princesschubbles
Summary: Will can't leave their wounds alone.(Smut. Gory but not as gory as I expected.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from a Killing Joke song that otherwise has nothing to do with Hannigram. Please be gentle with me, this is my first fanfiction EVER. Warning for unsafe and unsanitary medical and sexual practices. I know nothing about medicine.

The days immediately following their fall pass by in a blur of pain and pain medications. Will has fought for his life before, but never with such sustained effort. There is no time to think, barely any to speak. Each night they collapse in the tiny ship’s bed. Their bodies entangle and disentangle throughout their sleep without intention, and they wake up with bruises more tender than when they lay down.

 

Despite the constant ache in his muscles, the swelling in his re-located shoulder and the twinge in his sliced-open cheek, Will is keenly aware of his luck with the Dragon. These new scars pale in comparison to the smile on his belly. Hannibal, on the other hand, has been confined to bed rest since the fall. The bullet through Hannibal’s stomach exited cleanly but Will still can’t stop himself from checking nearly hourly for infection.

 

Their boat is well stocked with basic medical supplies, bandages and needles and rubbing alcohol. Hannibal stopped taking the morphine the minute he could speak enough to refuse, and Will knows that he would only force the pills down his throat out of spite. Besides, he feels better with Hannibal awake. He’s never been particularly fond of company, but Hannibal taught him to fear loneliness too.

 

“Will, darling,” Hannibal winces when Will lifts up his sheet for the second time that day, his voice heavy with sleep, “you do know I have a medical degree, yes? Trust me. I know my body better than you do.” Hannibal has begun to call him darling, unprompted. Will has not returned the favor.

 

“What is it they say, though- ‘A physician who treats himself has a fool for a patient?’” Will retorts.

 

Hannibal laughs shallowly as Will moves to examine the bandage on Hannibal's arm. “I haven’t heard anyone say that since medical school.”

 

“Doctor Du Maurier told me that. She was referring to herself at the time. But she could just as well have been mocking you.”

 

“Of course, but I could say the same for you,” Hannibal says as he reaches out a hand, and Will is so surprised by the sudden movement that he doesn’t pull away when Hannibal lays a hand on his cheek. He doesn’t resist when Hannibal grips his chin and pulls Will’s face towards him, but he does notice Hannibal’s surety. Even in this fogged state, Hannibal’s hands are steady and capable. Will is more cognizant than ever of the difference between the careful hands of a surgeon and the inquisitive hands of a mechanic. “You stitched this yourself?” he frowns and Will glares.

 

“What does it matter? It’s clean, isn’t it? Nothing vital. I’ll be ugly no matter what.” Will doesn’t know when he became the type of man who fished for compliments. End-of-life crisis, he supposes.

 

“You could never be ugly, Will. But you could have made sure that the scar would be less…. Striking.” Hannibal purses his lips in what Will understands is a disappointed frown.

 

“I didn’t have a choice, did I? You haven’t been awake much.”

 

“I could fix it for you. It will hurt, but the less distinctive we can make ourselves, the better.”

 

Hannibal’s right, of course. Will doesn’t need his face to be any more memorable, not with the photos of them that are likely plastered across the news. Will wonders if the media will mourn him as a fallen officer, or if his death will be as celebrated as Hannibal’s. “You’ve hurt me before,” he teases. Hannibal’s grimace deepens. Will’s empathy clenches sickly at the feeling of Hannibal’s regret. Even after all this time, the man’s capacity for emotion surprises him. “Do it,” he cedes.

 

Hannibal, on the other hand, is not surprised. He knew Will would say yes. Will realizes it as soon as he says it. Hannibal knows Will almost better than Will knows Hannibal. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, to be caught unawares by someone else’s motivations. It’s always been the appeal of Hannibal.

           

“Bring me the needles, scalpel, shears, thread and alcohol.” Hannibal’s hand hasn’t left Will’s face the whole time they’ve been talking; his fingers trace the scar with a clinical touch. Will stands up to rifle through the cabinets, his head swimming. He remembers letting Hannibal slice him open that night in the rain. He hopes this time won’t be nearly as bloody. Or as intimate.

 

As he places the supplies in a line on the bedside table he feels like a child playing nurse. Hannibal is not playing doctor, however. He readies himself quickly, dousing his hands and tools in the alcohol and threading the needle too quickly for Will to see. “Sit,” he says, nodding to Will’s half of the bed. Will sits down carefully. He trusts Hannibal’s skill- the man has sewn him up and cut him open as often as all of his other surgeons combined- but it’s no small comfort that the sea has been steady and clear all day.

 

“Do you want the morphine?” he asks Will, kindly.

 

“No,” Will answers with surety and sees Hannibal’s mouth twitch with pride. His throat is dry and his head buzzes. He doesn’t flinch when Hannibal swabs his cheek. He doesn’t waver when Hannibal tells him he’ll have to remove the old stitches. He stops breathing when Hannibal tells him he’ll have to cut his cheek back open and the memory of Hannibal’s knife in his belly fills his mind.

 

“Will- stay with me darling” Hannibal soothes.

 

“I’m fine,” he snaps his head to clear his thoughts, “Go ahead.”

 

Hannibal stares for a long moment before he leans forward and places his hand firmly on Will’s neck. Will wants to close his eyes, but he forces himself to look as Hannibal quickly cuts an exposed loop of thread and pulls out the stitches that Will spent nearly half an hour perfecting. He breathes deeply at the feel of blood welling up, but there’s very little pain. Hannibal picks up the scalpel. His hand hasn’t left Will’s throat. Will knows he can feel his pulse racing as Hannibal picks up the scalpel. A long middle finger urges Will’s face to the right. Will shudders at the cool touch of the blade, hands clenching the sheets. This time, Hannibal doesn’t hesitate at his shiver. He slices swiftly and surely through the buckling scab and the just-new flesh below.

 

The pain Will feels is like that of his first broken bone being forced back into place. He had tried to convince his father that he was fine, that his body would heal on its own, that it knew better than either of them. It didn’t work, and he had to be held down by the nurses as they pushed Will back together. The memory of that bone twisting and scraping inside of him fills Will with panic months after the bone heals. Breaking the arm hurt more than the fixing of it, but the knowledge of the fixing unsettled him in a way that that accidental snap of bone never would. Knowing that he allowed Hannibal to do this makes him sickly aware of the vulnerability of his own body in the moment of the slice. The blood running down his throat is all the more nauseating for the awareness that he could have just told Hannibal “No.”

 

When he can see again, Will realizes that Hannibal’s hands are no longer moving on him. “Are you just going to leave me like this?” he coughs out. He’s spitting blood. The pain in his cheek is growing sharper with each breath he takes. Hannibal doesn’t say a thing, and when Will looks at him, he realizes why.

Hannibal is in awe. Will has seen this look before, in the barn with a gun in his hand and a man dripping horse placenta onto the hay, but never with such openness and vulnerability. No one but Hannibal has ever looked at him like this. Wide eyes, exposed throat, mouth just the smallest bit open to reveal the edge of an unsettlingly sharp incisor. The adoration would be clear on anyone, but on Hannibal, who can betray deep anguish with less than a centimeter of movement, it’s more than adoration. It’s…worship.

 

Will is frozen. Hannibal’s love for him has been easy to push aside this last week, in their desperate and exhausted struggle to survive. It’s been almost a relief. Hannibal’s love has been overwhelming and omnipresent but also unpredictable. Here in the middle of the ocean, it seems like they’ve entered another world. They are free. Will doesn’t know what to do with freedom, but Hannibal does. Will knows he would yield to whatever Hannibal offered, if only for his own inexperience. A growing part of him knows he would yield because he enjoys what Hannibal offers. He doesn’t move, blood dripping down his cheek and into the hollows of his throat, waiting for Hannibal to offer.

 

“Darling,” the man breathes out, reaching up to cup Will’s face again. But this time there’s no skin to stop him, and the tips of his fingers sink into the space where Will’s face splits open.

 

 _This_ hurts. Will’s mind is obliterated by pain for a moment, but when he opens his eyes he recognizes the look on Hannibal’s face. It was not an accident. This is Hannibal’s love.

 

Hannibal holds Will’s face still while he pushes two fingers into that unnatural gap. He doesn’t intend to tear Will open anymore, but the sight of Will’s blood spilling out activates some instinctual curiosity. He fishhooks Will’s mouth from the inside, marveling at the ease of movement. Will is not fighting, he is not protesting, but he realizes that he is crying from pain, loose tears unaccompanied by the wracking sobs of true misery. As awareness settles back into his body, he also realizes, shockingly, that he is hard.

 

He jerks his head back viciously, suddenly coming back to himself and the disgust of the moment. It’s a wonder Hannibal’s fingers didn’t catch. He stands up and grabs the wad of bandages on the bed, shaking as he presses them ineffectually to his gory cheek. Will tries to turn himself away to hide himself from Hannibal, but Hannibal’s bony fingers are already wrapped tight around Will’s wrist. Hannibal pulls him forward with a jolt of strength, surprising for a man confined to bed rest. Will barely catches himself on the bed with his pad of bandages, bloodying the sheets as he tries to pull himself back upright. But Hannibal’s hand won’t budge, and it seems he is too intent on inspecting Will stem to stern to bother with apologies. When his eyes reach Will’s crotch, he thinks of spitting blood in Hannibal’s face for what the man has made him into. He doesn’t, just shudders as Hannibal’s other hand wraps around his slippery jaw and forces Will to turn back to him.

 

“Are you ashamed?” Hannibal says with a hint of laughter. Will can’t answer, just takes another shallow breath. “Someone who deals with unusual psychologies as often as you do should know that this is not an unknown reaction to pain,” before Will can argue, he slides three fingers back into Will’s wound to rub against the raw nerves of his exposed flesh. Will’s face screams with pain again, but this time he doesn’t lose himself. When Hannibal touches him, Will could swear he feels each one of his veins pulsing out blood. The pads of his fingers brush his shaking muscles. Will imagines the whorls of his fingerprint fitting together with his own frayed nerves, joined together in pain. He can hear Hannibal’s voice distinctly when he mutters, “Or maybe it’s not the pain that is arousing you. Perhaps it’s the tear itself.” He curls his fingers up to trace the impression of Will’s molars. Will imagines biting down, the crack of bone under his teeth, Hannibal’s blood mixing with his own. He wonders if he could taste the difference, and his erection grows more obnoxious by the second. “It may feel as this is an unnatural intrusion Will… but growth requires some unnatural breakage. Devoted martial artists, for example, encourage micro fractures in their bones so that they may heal harder and rougher.”

 

Will could almost laugh, if he weren’t sure that doing so would tear his cheek open even more. Here he is, dripping blood on their only set of sheets, with a stupidly obvious hard-on straining against the fine fabric of the pants that he found in the ship’s closet, and Hannibal is still calmly spinning metaphors. Hannibal’s hand slips back out of his cheek, trailing blood, and he starts to say something else. That’s when Will kisses him.

 

Hannibal reacts immediately to the slight pressure of Will’s lips. He tips forward and grabs the back of Will’s head, knitting his fingers through curls to press them closer together. Will has, very carefully, avoided imagining this moment. But he thinks that even if he had, he would not have imagined the strange softness of Hannibal’s lips, his skin, even stretched tight over the sharpest of bones. He would certainly not have imagined the taste of his own blood mingled with the antiseptic trace Hannibal’s hand left inside of him. Hannibal’s bloody fingers yank at his hair hard enough to make Will gasp and allow his strong tongue into his torn mouth. There is none of the delicacy of surgery here, but Will somehow trusts Hannibal not to rend him anymore than could be repaired by Hannibal’s capable hands. Besides, he’s too aroused to manage to tell Hannibal to stop. This is who he is now, he supposes. A man who gives into any vicious instinct with the slightest nudge.

 

Hannibal pulls away only enough to mouth at Will’s jaw, swiping his tongue up Will’s cheek through the blood. Will hears him swallow, feels the hot shallow puff of Hannibal’s breath in his ear. Will remembers standing on that cliff with the clarity that only new memories bring, and realizes that Hannibal wanted this after killing the Dragon too. Remembers the same shallow, hurried breath, a closeness that he thought was for stability then and realizes now was for pleasure. All this time, he almost thought of Hannibal as a man beyond desire, beyond sex. Of course, he felt a keen pleasure in beauty, whether it be the flow of a sonnet or the line of a corpse laid out just right. But lust… lust felt like something reserved for mere mortals, like Will, not the demi-god Hannibal saw himself as.

 

As Hannibal’s lips move up his neck, Will slides a hand over the other man’s back and onto his chest, feeling the landscape of his muscles beneath his open pajamas. His fingers dwell on the bandage around Hannibal’s waist and he considers, for a moment, returning the favor. Tearing off the bandage and forcing the bullet wound back open, the feel of Hannibal’s blood mixing with his own when Will licks at the wound. A groan pushes out of him, but he’s still himself enough to tamp that urge down, even though he’s not even sure Hannibal would stop him. They never were much concerned about self preservation when it came to one another.

 

Instead, Hannibal is kissing him again, his own hands grabbing at Will’s waist. Will lets his fingers slide lower, lets his hands confirm what his empathy already knew- Hannibal is as aroused as he is. He doesn’t linger, just ghosts his hands over the solid arch of Hannibal’s cock, just to know that it’s there. Just to know that it’s mutual. It doesn’t pass unnoticed, though. Hannibal gasps in Will’s ear and he grabs his wrist, holding it to his belly. He doesn’t force it lower, just holds it there. “Tell me” he whispers. _Tell me what you want_. Will has never been good at this part, asking. When the women he slept with asked him this, he would always push it back to them- I want whatever you want. And he wasn’t lying- he was happy just to be in bed with someone, just to give pleasure. Even with Molly, he was always too grateful to ask for anything. She got sick of it fast. But after what Hannibal’s done to him- for once, he doesn’t feel like he’s the one in debt. Hell, he deserves whatever he can get.

 

“Touch me,” he groans out. It’s still difficult, that childhood shame about sex never quite went away.

 

“Where?” and Will can almost hear Hannibal’s infuriating smile. The hand that isn’t wrapped around Will’s wrist grabs his face roughly, messily. “Here?” The noise that comes out of Will would be shameful if he weren’t already throbbing from the sensation of a knife through his cheek. “Here?” and Hannibal presses Will’s own hand hard against his cock. That does it. Will pulls his hand back and leaps up from his seat to straddle Hannibal on the bed. “Remember Will…. I’m injured” he hacks out, but he’s still smiling,

 

“Come on. Like that would ever stop you from getting what you want,” Will growls and shoves his hands down Hannibal’s pajamas, grabbing his balls this time. Hannibal’s eyes close for a moment, and then he gives a rare grin, shark-sharp canines exposed. “I’m sick of your games.” Will kisses him, and this time he’s not content to simply go along. He’s all teeth and force, and Hannibal’s hips buck up against his own in encouragement. Will pulls away for a moment to breathe and Hannibal grabs his opportunity, unzipping Will’s pants and drawing his underwear down to expose his aching cock. He looks Will right in the eyes, and for once in his life Will doesn’t turn away in shame as Hannibal grasps his cock. His fingers circle tight around the base, and Will doesn’t even care what he sounds like anymore. Anyway, he can barely hear himself through the pounding of blood in his ears.

 

When he kisses Hannibal again, he bites ‘til his lip splits. Hannibal has pulled down his own pants down. He encircles the length of both of them and he squeezes. Rubbing, grinding, the roughness of Hannibal’s thick cock on his own, foreskin bunching against Will’s cut head. Wills not trying to keep his eyes open anymore, just falls into Hannibal. He sinks his bloody teeth into every inch of exposed shoulder muscle he can reach. Hannibal shudders. His broad hand spread against the small of Will’s back, hiking up his shirt. Pushing him closer, closer, closer still. Will feels the head of his cock press against the bandage around Hannibal’s waist, and that just makes him push harder.

 

Hannibal says something in a language Will doesn’t recognize. The way he spits it out sounds like a curse. Every inch of Will’s body that Hannibal has touched feels raw. All this clothing between them just makes these smallest touches burn more. Not even when he was a virginal college kid did sex ever feel this good, this desperate. He’s going to come all over the bloody cotton around Hannibal’s waist and he can’t even care. He’s glad of it, wants to make Hannibal feel as filthy as he does. He presses harder, faster, urgently pushing himself towards orgasm.

 

Suddenly Hannibal pushes him back, Will’s teeth scraping of off Hannibal’s collar bone. Now Will’s the one cursing without Hannibal’s flesh in his mouth to muffle him. Hannibal’s thumb and forefinger squeeze in a tight, unmoving circle around their hardness. Will tries for any friction, even the smallest touch would send him off, but Hannibal’s wrist refuses to shift even a millimeter. Hannibal stares right at him. Only the speed of his breathing and the sheen of sweat on his chest betrays the desperation of his hips a few moments ago. With an infuriating slowness, he reaches towards Will’s cheek. Will thinks he knows what’s coming.

 

He bows his head in supplication and is shocked when Hannibal grabs him by the back of his head and _presses his mouth_ to the wound. This can’t be anywhere near sanitary. His tongue slides into the hole, lapping at the blood like it were water. Will thinks he might pass out, with the pain and the blood loss and the aching, buzzing sensation of his arousal. And then Hannibal’s fingers give the slightest squeeze, finally, and Will’s orgasm breaks. His overworked nervous system feels every pump, every stroke, the way the head of his cock pushes against the rough cotton of the gauze as he spills onto- hopefully not into- Hannibal’s wound. He shakes through it, but Hannibal won’t let go of his hair. He’s still licking and sucking with an even greater thirst, and Will realizes that Hannibal has come only when he feels the streak of semen cooling on his belly. They’re both limp as Hannibal pulls away, crumpled on the bed. Will shifts to climb off of Hannibal and his injuries, but a strong bony hand holds him down.

 

“I should clean us off,” he tries, “We’ll get infected.”

 

“And I should finish stitching you up,” Hannibal laughs.

 

They stare at each other, but neither of them moves. Will licks the blood off his lips, and supposes a few more minutes here won’t hurt. After all, they’ve survived worse.


End file.
